Glimpse
by jelenamichel
Summary: A series of short glimpses into moments in Tony and Ziva's relationship. Each chapter is based on a different theme. Chapter one: sleepless.
1. Sleepless

_Before I retire for real—really real—I'm going through my files and pulling out all these short scenes that I wrote over the years that never really fit anywhere or turned into anything more than what they are. So that we don't drag this out for years (I literally have hundred of these in my files), I'll group them up in common themes and post a theme a week, with usually three short pieces—or glimpses—to each theme. At least, that's the intention._

 _Each short piece is unrelated to the others in the theme in terms of timeline or relationship status, so don't try to make sense of them that way. And they vary greatly in terms of quality, style and tone. Like I said, they're all unrelated._

 _Did any of that make sense? Read on. Hopefully it'll become obvious._

 _First theme: Sleepless._

* * *

 _Sleepless – Bullpen_

Time creeps past midnight so quietly that it takes him an hour to notice. An email pops up in the bottom right of his computer screen, pulling his eyes to the clock, and when he realizes that tomorrow has become today he can't quite believe it. It's just him and Ziva in the bullpen now. Gibbs left a little while ago to start knocking on his contacts' doors when they wouldn't answer his calls, and Tony thinks he's probably having angry conversations with old men in their pajamas right now. McGee sequestered himself in the lab with Abby hours ago, and either he is still there or he's gone home to slip into pajamas himself. So it's down to the faithful Saint Bernard and his trusty ninja sidekick to get the job done. Except that now that he has snapped out of his file coma, he realizes he has developed a throbbing headache and his eyes have turned into sandpaper. Also, he's crazy hungry.

At the thought of food his stomach growls so loudly that Ziva pulls herself out of her own file coma and looks over at him.

"Was that you?" she asks, disbelief smothering her tone as the late hour hangs on her eyelids.

"My stomach," he tells her, providing assurance that the noise was contained _inside_ his body. "I just remembered I haven't eaten since lunch." His stomach growls again, and he winces at the painful, empty feeling.

He expects her to make some cutting remark, even if just to tease. But she appears too tired for that. She pushes back her chair, moving out of the warm glow of her lamp and into the shadows for a moment before she stands slowly, as if testing the stretch of her aching back. She reaches for her coat and slides it on in slow motion.

"Come on," she aims at him, voice deep and raspy with the hour. But she doesn't explain what she is encouraging him to do.

"You're putting on your coat to raid the vending machine?" he guesses, and then shakes his head with flirtatious wonder. "Exactly how many Hershey bars are you planning to take?"

She tilts her head fondly as she approaches his desk and lifts his coat from the top of the four-drawer filing cabinet. "We need fresh air," she tells him. "And proper food." She holds her coat open for him like a chivalrous date. "Half an hour away from this will not matter."

He can't fault her logic, particularly when it works in his favor. He stands with a smile and spins to slide his arms into the coat, and Ziva positions it properly on his shoulders before her hands run from his shoulders down his arms. Before she gets to his wrists, she lifts them again and presses her palms against his upper back for just a moment. He wonders how a touch can be so chaste and yet so intimate, but that seems to be the way everything about their relationship goes.

Chaste, but intimate.

"Let's go."

They're quiet in the elevator, and their boots thud against the floor in soft unison as they cross the foyer. The guards on duty look up at the noise and nod in greeting before looking away again. He hits the big green button that opens the front door after hours, and they step out into the still morning. The air is cool and welcome against his cheeks, and the smell of the Potomac River familiar in his nose. Orange lamps cast light on the fog gathering above their heads. It will reach the ground by sunrise.

Hands buried deep in their pockets, they turn left and walk in step towards the 24-hour diner three blocks away. He enjoys the silence that has rolled in with the fog. There is traffic in the distance—engines on the surface streets and the docks nearby—but everything in their radius has gone to bed. It's calming. Rejuvenating. Hopeful. It seems obscene to break it with inessential discussion, but he can't help it. He likes talking to her, even when she's not in the mood. But he thinks that tonight, she will be.

"I wonder what my body would do if I suddenly started following regular sleeping and eating patterns," he begins, giving (soft) voice to a thought he's had dozens of times in the past. "Would it say, _Hey thanks, let me remove that 15 pounds I've been holding onto as punishment for your lifestyle?_ Or would I have a heart attack when I can't adapt?"

"I sincerely hope it is the former," Ziva replies, taking his cue to keep her voice low. "I would not appreciate you having a heart attack."

He glances down at dark curls bouncing back from pink-tinged cheeks. " _You_ wouldn't appreciate it?" How has she made his musings about her?

Ziva tips her head to the side in acknowledgement. "I am sure it would cause you a great measure of irritation as well," she allows graciously. "However I would have to deal with it."

They walk a few paces as he tries to wear her argument. "So, you think visiting me in hospital—should I survive this massive heart attack—would be worse than being the one to almost die? And who'll then probably have to undergo open heart surgery, spend six months recovering and change their entire life."

"You _would_ survive," she says firmly, glancing up at him with an expression that dares him to argue. "Because it is likely that I would be with you when you had this heart attack, and I would give you CPR."

He smirks. "I appreciate that, Ziva. I'd give you CPR too."

She flashes him a smile that makes his stomach flip. "Thank you. And yes, _sitting by your bedside_ while all this happened would be worse."

He feels a pang of affection for her before be turns wary. "Oh. Because you assume I'll be complaining the whole time?" It seems likely, both that he would complain and she would consider his complaining torture. But she shakes her head before her eyes find the sidewalk.

"No. Because until you are fully recovered, I would be in a constant state of panic that you would die."

The pang comes back. The woman has developed one hell of a soft spot for him over the years, and for that he will be eternally grateful. He responds by slinging his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her into his side for a few seconds.

"Then we better hope it's the 15 pounds."

She chuckles, and then puts a chilled hand on his belly and looks up at him with an expression that affectionately (at least to his eyes) teases his slowly softening physique. He takes no offense, but drops his arm, and they walk a few more steps in silent.

"I like you anyway," she tells him.

Warmth spreads through his chest. She likes him as he is—full of faults, failures and frailties—and he can't deny that it provides him a sense of peace.

He wears a small smile all the way to the diner.

Chaste, but intimate.

…

 _Sleepless – Tucson_

 _Hot as balls._

In the third—or was it the forth?—summer that Ziva spent in Washington, she overheard a "dude bro" with overstuffed trapezius muscles and painfully red skin lament to his fellow bro that the day was "hot as balls". Without understanding the reference (back then, anyway), Ziva nevertheless understood his meaning. It was hot. _Unpleasantly_ hot. Sticky, sweaty, stinky hot. And although she wasn't one to talk about balls at the drop of a hat, it was a phrase that had stuck with her and slipped into her thoughts whenever another unpleasantly hot day rolled around.

Without question, the day she had spent in Tucson on a case with Tony was hot as balls. And that heat had followed them out of the sun, into the evening and past sundown. She should be asleep now, resting up for an early flight home and another long day at work to follow. But she's not. Because the air conditioner is useless and it's hot as balls. And because she cannot get her head around this damn case, no matter how hard she tries. She tries to distract herself from the heat by turning the details around in her head over and over. By pulling them apart and trying to tie them back together in strange combinations. But all she ends up with is confusion and a sweaty brow.

The ping of her cell phone startles her enough to send another hot flush racing from head to toe, and she sits up on cheap and scratchy budget motel sheets to reach towards the blue glow.

 _U up?_

Text message from her partner in the next room. She rolls her eyes—of _course_ she is awake, and her frustration is so great she is sure he can sense it through the walls. She considers texting him back for a fleeting second, but in the next she is on her feet and reaching for her room key on the dresser. She is across the room and out the door in the next five, and she knocks on his door before ten seconds pass. He takes at least that long to open the door, shirtless with disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. His air con seems about as effective as hers.

"I kind of expected to see fire and brimstone raining down out here," he muses, moving aside to allow her entrance.

She walks past him and tosses her key on the dresser beside the TV before settling on the corner of his bed, legs crisscrossed and elbows on the inside of her knees. She lets out a sigh to communicate her mental state as he returns to bed and sits back against the headboard.

"This case is turning my head into a pretzel," she tells him, and then catches his eyes making a pass over her tank top and girlie boxers. Yet another flush rushes through her. He's seen her in less. Perhaps if she is very good, he'll have good reason to again.

"I think that's the point," he responds, dragging his attention back to where she supposes it should be. "Everyone involved seems to be going out of their way to be misleading."

She twists her hair and flips it over her shoulder. "I am so sick of people lying to me, Tony."

"You're a federal agent," he points out with half a smile on his lips. "You're just going to have to assume that's not going to change for the foreseeable future."

"Yes, but I do not have to like it," she grumbles.

He unfolds long legs and crosses them at the ankle. "I promise I will never lie to you about my involvement in a murder," he says easily, then grins.

Ziva scoffs and shakes her head, dismissing the idea that his confession would make a difference. "You would not be able to."

He shrugs a bare shoulder, giving up the fight immediately. "Probably. More like I'd be asking for your help to cover it up."

She smiles at how very wrong he is. "Tony, you would never cover it up," she states with complete confidence in her position. "You would own up to it immediately."

He has the gall to shake his head, but there is a smile in his eyes that acknowledges the truth, even if his mouth argues. "No way, Ziva. I'm an outlaw."

Nothing could be further from the truth, but she goes along with the idea for the simple novelty of it. "All right. I promise I will help you cover it up."

His head falls to the side with sweet appreciation. "You're the _best_."

She smirks and twists her hair back again as she wonders at the circumstances that would lead her partner with the moral compass astray. Then she remembers all the rules and laws he broke to drag her out of the desert, and her heart starts to ache.

He is not an outlaw. But he is loyal to the core, and he would do anything for his family. That could be his downfall one day.

"I promise I won't lie to you," he says out of the blue.

Her heart flips because this is undeniably the truth. His eye contact is made with a dozen short glances, so she knows he's pushing himself on this. And she gives him credit for that, particularly as she knows she hasn't always held up her end of that bargain. Her throat closes, and she swallows down the emotional obstruction.

"Not about anything important," he goes on, only after it's clear she's heard the vow for what it is. "I might lie and tell you you're a great driver, or that you don't look awful when you're sick. But those don't count."

She draws a deep, slow breath and returns as much honesty as she can stand. "I know I have not always excelled in this area. I know I am lucky you are you, because many—well, _most_ —other people would have decided I am not worth the effort anymore. Or worth their trust. I promise I have been trying very hard to do better. With you."

He nods, and he's able to keep her gaze now that he feels he's on firmer ground. "I know you have," he says, and the assurance means a lot to her. He stretches a leg to tap her knee with his foot. "You're always worth the effort, Ziva," he tells her, voice weighed down by honesty. "And you always have my trust."

His words have an immediate effect on her. They lift her mood and her outlook. She is lucky to have him. Especially when other people lie to her every day. "You always have mine," she returns, and then enjoys the smile that sweeps across his face.

She could crawl over and hug him right now. Hug and kiss and love and thank. But she doesn't, because she never does.

She maintains the status quo.

…

 _Sleepless – Sorry_

He's suffered his fair share of bad relationships. So has Ziva. Between them, Tony thinks they could fill an entire book with anecdotes on how things can fall apart and turn your life into a pile of crap. But they're not the champions of crap. Even between Wendy, Jeanne, Michael and Ray, and dozens of short-term dating adventures that hurt, humiliated or horrified, they still don't come close to the train wreck of Beau and Bindy Babineaux.

The husband and wife (for now) witnesses to a murder had spent the day under Tony and Ziva's watchful gaze at one of NCIS's remote safe houses. Half an hour after they'd arrived, Bindy discovered that Beau had been having an affair, and the peaceful woodland setting had been completely destroyed by a screaming match that Tony feared would literally bring the roof down. His and Ziva's first attempts at defusing the fight had been ignored (if they were even heard), and eventually they just sat at the tiny kitchen table and stared at the walls as the fight raged on above their heads.

Never in his entire career has he been happier for a shift change.

He and Ziva leave Gibbs and McGee at ground zero and hike off to a secondary location—another safe house nearby where they can rest for the night. The contrasting quiet allows space in his head for stunned introspection. Because some of the examples of bad behavior that Beau and Bindy Babineaux dug up and hurled at each other to underscore their crappy relationship hit a little too close to home. Tony isn't in a romantic relationship with his partner. _Technically_. Except that emotionally, he's pretty much committed to the idea. And _technically_ , he thinks it's only a matter of time before things change.

Unless they kept doing mean and thoughtless things to each other.

He shifts his head slightly so that he can glance at her out of the corner of his eye. His partner lies three inches away under the sleeping bag they've turned into a double so they can 'share body heat'. She's staring at the ceiling with a shell-shocked expression, and he assumes this means that she's also personalizing the battle they just witnessed.

"Ziva?" His voice is small, perhaps to preserve the quiet. Or perhaps because he's not sure he should do this.

She blinks slowly and arches her eyebrows. "Hmm?"

He hesitates. Almost bites his lip. But forges ahead. "I want to say…I'm sorry I sometimes correct your words."

Ziva shifts under the sleeping bag, glances in his direction. He sees worry in her eyes, but it's worry born of understanding for where he's coming from. "Well, sometimes I get them wrong," she replies softly. It seems she is in a forgiving mood tonight. He will need to be as well. "I am sorry that sometimes I continue to fight with you over something stupid, just because I may enjoy annoying you."

He nods, and the corner of his mouth pulls back in a smile. Forgiving and honest. This has the potential to get scary. But it's necessary. "I mean, that's mutual," he points out, absolving both of them.

"I know."

He squeezes his eyes shut in momentary embarrassment. "I'm so sorry that my dad tried to grab your ass that one time."

"That is not your fault."

He shrugs. "Yeah. But he's never going to apologize, so…"

She chuckles, and it's clear she hasn't been harboring resentment about that one. Then she sobers. "I am sorry that there have been times when I did not come to you for help when I should have."

That one makes him want to punch the air in triumph. Because that's what he's always said. And he _knows_ he's right. But it wouldn't be good form to rub that in her face. "Thank you," he says simply, sincerely.

"I know it bothers you—"

"Yes." He pauses before giving her back something he knows grates on her. "I'm sorry that some days I'm deliberately really loud and obnoxious."

"Well, those are the days that you feel the worst about yourself," she says with more insight than he expected. Although he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. "It is okay."

He turns his head to look at her. "How did you know that?"

She shrugs. Smiles. "Educated guess." Another pause. "I am sorry I am sometimes deliberately dismissive of you."

He offers her the same insight she provided to him. "You do that when your feelings are tender," he tells her gently. "When you don't want to be vulnerable in front of me."

There's a long pause, and he thinks she's going to deny it. But then he realizes she's trying to _let herself_ be vulnerable. "I do not want to lean on you more than is…appropriate."

That hurts. But he gets it. He knows. But he rejects it. "You're my partner. You're supposed to lean on me."

"Not for everything."

He turns his head again and watches her closely. "Yes," he says clearly. "For everything."

She twists her lips into silence. It's one vulnerable step too far. But her hand sneaks across the void beneath the sleeping bag to slide into his, and that's a better response than he could ever hope for.

He gives her a moment to regroup, and finally, she grins. "I am sorry that I so often take a bite out of your lunch."

He tips his head back and groans. "Oh my God, that one _kills me_ , Ziva!" he cries, and it's weird that this is the one that gets him so worked up. But he can't help it. "Why do you do that? Why do you think it's okay?"

Her shoulders shake as she laughs. "It is just to annoy you," she tells him with complete honesty.

"Cut it out," he tells her, leaving no room for misunderstanding. "Seriously. Don't mess with my food."

She holds up her free hand as if taking an oath. "Okay. I promise."

And so it goes. Apologies, absolutions, and mild admonishments. Hands grip tighter, laughs get louder, and chests get lighter. He could go on all night, but there comes a point where apologizing for every little thing detracts from his sincerity. And besides, they're _not_ sorry for everything. They wouldn't be them if there were.

But one things remains.

"Tony?" She rolls to her side and he sees guilt in her eyes that hasn't been there until now. "I am sorry for that time when I said we were not friends."

His chest aches as ghosts from the past reappear.

"You are my best friend." Her voice wavers and her eyes water. She smiles quickly. Nervously.

She is vulnerable. So is he. It's why they lied about it in the first place.

"I know," he assures her. "You're mine, too."

Her smile spreads, and she launches herself impulsively at his side to hug him. He smiles into hair that smells both familiar and forbidden and squeezes her back as hard as she can stand.

He's sorry they didn't do this earlier.


	2. History

**I don't know why these all ended up being about Tony. Perhaps because his history is easier for me to imagine than Ziva's.**

 **Theme 2: History**

* * *

 _History – Wendy_

He still remembers the days when New Year's Eve meant drinking, partying until dawn and ending with an interesting injury that would make a great story in the future. The drinking part isn't likely to make an appearance tonight. But the great story bit? He still has hope.

The team has spent this New Year's gatecrashing a dinner party up in Baltimore. They'd gone in looking for the weapon that would match a commander's lethal head wound, and they had found a blood-stained screwdriver fitting the bill in a tool box under the sink in the commander's daughter's apartment. But it was her tipsy and argumentative husband who they ended up taking into custody. Tony and Ziva were both required to restrain the hysterical wife while her husband was marched out to Gibbs' car in handcuffs, and eventually the rest of the guests were left to finish their champagne and hors d'oeuvres in peace.

While Gibbs and McGee drive off with their suspect in one car, Tony gets behind the wheel of the second and takes Ziva in a completely different direction. He thinks it's probably going to take a while to make the trip back to the Navy Yard tonight anyway, and decides that another 20 minutes on New Year's won't make any difference. He hopes his partner will indulge him for those minutes as he drives them down memory lane.

Ten minutes later he pulls up outside his old apartment building. Something bubbles up in his chest as he looks up at the rundown, graffiti-tagged building, and he's not quite sure what it is. He certainly doesn't miss it here. He's not pining for times past. What is it?

"What are you looking at?" Ziva asks after the car has been idling for a few seconds for no obvious reason.

"This used to be my apartment building," he tells her, and then swings his head around to take in her expression.

Ziva peers through the windshield and wrinkles her nose. It makes him smile. "Well. I can see why you chose it," she deadpans. "It is a lovely neighborhood." He chuckles and she points down the street at the darkened corner store that screams _danger_. "Oh! And convenient. It looks like you can get your milk _and_ your crack at the same place."

He sighs with affected melancholy. "I really do hate that I have to make two stops for those now."

She smiles at him, and his gets bigger.

"Why here, Tony?"

He shrugs and looks back at the building. "Because we were poor," he says obviously.

There is a pause before she catches on. "Wendy."

He nods, feeling only slightly uncomfortable, and gestures at the building with a flourish. "This was to be the marital home. To begin with, anyway."

Ziva shoots him a look of gentle pity that he takes no offence to.

"Maybe the building was an omen," he suggests.

She nods and looks around. "New Year's Eve has you thinking about times gone by, yes?"

"Only because we ended up in Baltimore," he tells her. He hadn't been thinking about this part of his life at all lately. He looks out the window again and tries to remember how it felt to be 28, a new detective and with a serious girlfriend he was thinking about marrying and starting a family with. He can grasp only fragments of the memory. Younger Tony feels like a stranger to him. "God, life takes some crazy turns."

She snorts, and he turns his head to look at her. Her can read her comment on her face. _Understatement_. He smiles again.

"Did you feel more stable here?" she asks, and the question doesn't really surprise him.

"Kind of. I thought I knew what was coming," he admits. "Then Gibbs arrived." That feeling from before bubbles up in his chest again, and he rubs his hand over his shirt. It's the strangest sensation.

"You sound like you regret that," Ziva says carefully.

He shakes his head. Many times in the past, he has wondered about what life would have been like if he hadn't taken Gibbs up on his offer. He may have his bad days (and, okay, the bad days are becoming more frequent of late), but this job gives him a measure of unpredictability—crazy turns—that he knows he wouldn't have had if he'd stayed in Baltimore.

He'd traded off other things, but…

"No," he tells her definitively. It takes him a few more moments before he explains himself further. Any discussion with Ziva about the future or what he wants is…scary. "There are just bits of life I thought I was going to experience that I haven't."

Her expression is open and warm, and he thinks she's trying _really_ hard to make it easier for him. "A family," she says, getting to the point for him.

"Yeah."

Her eyes flick away for a moment, the only hint that she might be uncomfortable. "Do you still want that?"

The question hangs between them as his thoughts drift to Wendy. She didn't marry him, but she married someone else and they had a son. That could have been his son. He thinks about Jeanne. He could have married her if they'd met under different circumstances. He definitely could have had a kid with her by now.

It strikes him for the first time that Wendy and Jeanne were pretty similar. A teacher and a doctor, both passionate about helping people and caring for them. Perhaps that is why both women appealed to him. Because not so deep down, he wants someone to care for him. Not to look after him, exactly. But to watch out for him and guide him away from doing stupid things. Someone to stand by his side when he does stupid things anyway. Someone with his best interests at heart, and who fights with him because of it.

"Tony?"

He looks across the way at her and smiles. Because he does have someone who does all that. "Yes, I do," he tells her.

Her face softens, and so does his heart. "Wendy said you were a hopeless romantic," she says, and manages to make it sound like she's making fun of him.

He opens his mouth, but she cuts in to address the point he was about to make.

"But I did not need her to tell me that."

He smiles again. She gets him. He's a lucky man. He puts the car back in gear and accelerates away from his past life.

"You do not want stable," Ziva states as they pass the scary corner store. "Mundane, predictable. That is not you."

"No," he agrees. "But being a detective in Baltimore wasn't exactly mundane."

"I am sure it was not," she says. "But would you have traveled as much as you have if you stayed? Would you have been mentored by someone like Gibbs? Would you have found another teammate who is as technologically adept as McGee? Would you—"

"You don't have to sell me on the idea, Ziva," he says. "I love my job, mostly, and you all have become a kind of family."

"But not the kind of family you are looking for."

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not going to ask McGee to adopt a kid with me, no."

"He would make an excellent father."

He heaves a sigh. "Don't you dare say that to him. He'll be unbearable."

They drive a few miles in silence, crossing into a better part of town that's alive with New Year's revelers. He remembers that the restaurant he took Wendy to the night he proposed is around here somewhere, but he doesn't look for it. He doesn't feel the need to visit with the past anymore. The end of that relationship really did break something inside him that's never healed, but things are still better now. He has someone now who likes him better when he's being himself instead of acting the clown to make other people happy or feel better about themselves. He has someone who has all the skills he doesn't, and who lacks a lot of the ones he does. He has someone he would go to the end of the earth for, and who he knows would do the same for him in a heartbeat.

Okay, she's not his girlfriend yet. But he does think about marrying her.

She breaks the silence. "I have something terrible to say to you."

 _Someone who is pretty straight with him_. "Oh. Great."

"I am glad that Wendy left you."

He winces and shoots her an irritated look. "That is terrible," he confirms. "You could have just said you're glad we broke up," he points out. "It would've gotten the same message across without stabbing my ego."

"Sorry." She sounds sincere. "I just meant that if you had not broken up, and you had not joined NCIS, then you would not be in my life. Technically, if you were not in my life I would not know what I was missing. But since you are, I am…thankful."

They pull up at a stoplight and he looks across at her. She looks nervous but sincere. He only teases her a little bit. "And you say _I'm_ the hopeless romantic."

She smirks, and then surprises him by reaching over to cup his cheek and leaning over the center console to kiss his cheek. Her lips are warm and soft, and that feeling rises in his chest again.

"Happy New Year," she tells him.

He kisses her cheek back. "Happy New Year."

"I hope that this year you are able to make a start on getting the family that you want."

He looks at her closely, and he's convinced she knows what she's saying. He finally knows what the feeling in his chest is. It's relief. Relief that things worked out the way they did.

He squeezes her hand and smiles at the opportunity laid out in front of him. "Things are definitely off to a good start, Ziva."

By this time next year, he thinks he might have a good New Year's story to tell.

…

 _History – Bridget_

He has a history with her. One that stretches back 25 years to a time when both of them, by all accounts, were gorgeous and carefree and idealistic. Apparently he told her once that he wanted to be a musician—not a rock star, a _musician_ , because that is far more romantic to some 15-year-old girls—and now she jokes with him about it and brings it into conversation as if she knows his entire life.

Ziva does not like her.

Bridget—her calls her _Bridge_ because they've known each other since their teen years and that what he's always called her—just transferred from Norfolk. The first time she comes to visit his desk she tells him that she heard another agent refer to him in the elevator.

"Tony DiNozzo! How many Tony DiNozzos can there be out there?"

At least two, he reminds her. And they both laugh as if Tony sharing his father's name is some huge inside joke.

Ziva _hates_ her.

Isn't it funny— _oh my God, it's so funny!_ —that they've come back into each other's lives?

 _Bridge_ had leaned over his desk and lifted golden hair over her shoulder, and although her back was to Ziva she'd watched her partner's eyes travel south. Ziva's had traveled to the heavens.

The first time Ziva met _Bridge_ officially was on a slow day when she and Tony had eaten lunch outside in the courtyard. _Bridge_ had appeared out of nowhere carrying a burger and fries (it is hard to get a pitcher of beer in the Yard, she'd joked, because she's just one of the guys…with giant boobs) and sat down uninvited beside her oldest BFF. Tony introduces them and steals a French fry from _Bridge's_ plate, and _Bridge_ turns an OTT smile on her. She mispronounces Ziva's name—Tony has _literally_ just said it—before telling her that Tony's told her so much about her.

"Really? I have not heard anything about you."

 _Bridge_ 'playfully' asks Ziva if she's a good agent since it's her job to watch Tony's back—"You better not let anything happen to my buddy!"—and when it becomes clear that Ziva has literally been stunned into silence Tony steps in to assure _Bridge_ that Ziva's the best.

Two days later he comes in late and hungover, and Ziva feels her stomach drop. He talks of a drink that turned into ten, and an impromptu visit to a piano bar. He's thinking of starting lessons again. She swallows her comment as McGee watches with concern that Ziva angrily ignores and Tony doesn't notice. She wants a case to work on.

She gets her wish. A sailor's wife is killed in her home. It looks like a sex crime. Before she knows it she's undercover and baiting the enemy. She throws herself into the challenge, and after two 'dates' their suspect is arrested during a rough, semi-clothed struggle. She breaks two of her fingers and a wrist in the arrest.

Tony never makes it to the hospital.

She starts to hate him.

Later on she finds out that he was 'interrogating' their suspect, and that somewhere along the way he learned (probably from her) how to inflict pain without leaving marks.

She starts to hate _herself_.

Bridge stops by the next day to compliment her on her "great job!", and on the black eye she picked up, then offers to show her how to cover it up with concealer.

"I've had a few in my time," _Bridge_ chirps. "They can be a bitch to hide, but I can teach you."

That's the last straw.

She accosts Tony in the break room and makes it clear that he is not, _under any circumstances_ , to share a shred more information about her with his new sidekick. She turns her back on his expression of surprised hurt.

 _Hurt me, I'll hurt you back._ It's how she operates. He should know that by now.

She begins to avoid contact and non-professional interaction with him, and starts seeing a veterinarian several years younger than her who she meets at the gym. _Bridge_ makes noticeably fewer visits to the bullpen, and she features less in Tony's stream of consciousness conversation when he is bored. But there is a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye that makes the pit of her stomach burn. She fights her jealousy with vigorous sex with the veterinarian who she doesn't particularly like.

It takes a brutal drive to Pennsylvania together for him to confront her about her jealousy. He is right, and she hates it—that it is the truth, and that he knows it—so she throws her 'relationship' with the veterinarian at him as airtight evidence that she doesn't really care about whatever he is or isn't doing with his sidekick. He flat out tells her he doesn't believe her. His gall makes her want to drown him.

Their relationship fractures further.

The veterinarian breaks up with her for reasons she doesn't really hear or care about, except that the next morning it's her turn to show up at work with a hangover. She returns to the bullpen after a bathroom break to find Aspirin on her desk but no colleagues around. She knows he's responsible, and the small gesture thaws her out. She misses him. Even if he is still the dumbass dating Boobs McLegsly. She makes sure he sees her smile of thanks that afternoon. He thaws as well.

She swallows her pride. And her jealousy.

She leaves early that night so that she can get to the stoop of his apartment building before him. It's 15 minutes before she sees his familiar outline coming towards her, alone. Her all-day queasiness subsides. She doesn't like the wary look in his eye when he sees her, but it dissolves when he notices the takeout coffee cup balancing on the pizza box in her unbroken hand.

"I am sorry," she says before another word is spoken. "I have been…" (bitchy) "…testy. And you do not deserve it." She lifts the pizza and coffee towards him. He takes the peace offering easily.

"Thank you."

"Thank you for the Aspirin."

"You looked like you needed it."

She only needs to lift her eyebrows to make her feelings clear.

"Do you want to come up and eat?"

The offer warms her, but she shakes her head. "No, thank you. I do now want to intrude. I just wanted to apologize."

"You're not intruding." He sees the question on her face—what of _Bridge?_ —and shifts to his other foot. "I'm not expecting anyone."

"Oh?"

He shrugs, and he seems to have let it go easily. "She's not who I remembered. Or…" He trails off, seems to weigh up the conflicting thoughts on his mind. "It's more that I'm not who I was."

"At 15? I would not cry over that."

His smile is wistful. "No. But it was fun to pretend for a while." He flips open the pizza box lid to get a glimpse of his dinner, and then skewers her with a look of outrage. "It's half gone!"

She shrugs sheepishly. "I am hungover."

"You're the worst."

She takes no offense. "That is…not inaccurate."

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Come up," he says, and climbs the steps. "I'm going to order another pizza."

"No, I am done," she tells him, but follows him regardless.

"Not for you. You have to watch me eat to atone for your sins."

She twists her lips. "You mean, eating your dinner, or…the other stuff."

He looks at her over his shoulder with a mock superior look. "All of it, Ziva. And then we'll be good."

She grimaces, but follows him. It's the least she can do.

They have the strangest relationship.

…

 _History – Sarah_

"Detective DiNozzo?"

It's been so long since he was a detective that had his name not been attached to the title he wouldn't have lifted his head from his lunch. But he squints upwards from behind sunglasses to regard the woman who called his (old) name. A woman in her 50s stands in the late summer sunshine, casting a shadow over his chargrilled steak. Her face tugs familiar strings in his mind, but it's only when her eyes water and lips pinch that he recognizes her. He gets to his feet immediately.

"Mrs Stoughton," he greets. His smile is warm and natural as he extends his hand. "It's good to see you."

He sees old hurt in her eyes, but she otherwise seems overjoyed to have run into him. "Oh, you too!" she cries. "I wasn't sure if it was you. I was over there and I wasn't sure…I'm so glad it is." She pauses and looks down at Ziva, who occupies the other side of the small outdoor table. His dining partner smiles kindly, and Mrs Stoughton puts her hand to her chest. "Oh, I'm so sorry for interrupting."

Ziva shakes her head. He thinks she senses this is a big deal. "It is no problem."

"I just wanted to say hello," Mrs Stoughton says, looking between them. "When I saw the detective—Is it still Detective?"

Tony shakes his head, shrugs. It doesn't really matter. "Special Agent," he mumbles, then gestures at Ziva. "This is my partner."

Mrs Stoughton leans over to extend her hand to Ziva, who shakes it with a sweet smile. "Ziva."

"Lovely to meet you, Ziva," she says, and there's a tone in her voice that tells Tony she has assumed Ziva is his romantic partner, not Special Agent partner. He doesn't suppose that matters now either.

"How is Sarah?" he asks, tackling the bull by the horns. He holds his breath as he waits for bad news, but Mrs Stoughton melts into a heart-warming smile.

"Oh, she's just wonderful," she tells him, and tears are in her eyes before she's finished the sentence. "She's working on her Masters at Georgetown. Engaged to a wonderful man. They've traveled the world together."

He's not prepared for how happy, relieved and flat out emotional this news makes him. He thinks of the young teen he spent weeks searching for back in the day. Of the scraps of her clothes they found caked in mud in a field. He thinks of her terrified and dirty young face when he found her under a dark house in northwest Baltimore, and how tightly her skinny body had clung to him for the hour it took for her parents to arrive.

Unexpected tears spring to his eyes, and he reaches out to touch Mrs Stoughton's arm. "I'm so glad to hear that."

Mrs Stoughton's bottom lip quivers, and he thinks they reach for each other at the same time. It's a hug he thinks they both need.

"I'm sorry," she says, stepping back after just a moment.

He's quick to shake his head and wave the apology away. "Don't be sorry." His voice feels tight. But it's a good kind of tight. He'll be smiling this afternoon.

"Do you want to see a photo?" Mrs Stoughton asks.

"I'd love to."

She taps through her phone and then shows him a photo of a woman in her prime, golden hair framing clear blue eyes and a loving smile. He wonders how she ever found the strength not to let the kidnapping beat her.

"She's beautiful," he tells her from a place of pride. "She must be incredibly strong."

Mrs Stoughton laughs. "Stronger than all of us," she replies, her voice tinged with awe. "She held us together. Healed us."

He squeezes her shoulder. "Tell her I said hi."

"She'll be so happy to hear that I saw you." She pauses. "Would you mind…I know it's a lot to ask, and you can say no. But would you mind if she called you?"

His smile hurts his cheeks. "No, of course not." He reaches for his wallet to grab a business card. "I'd love to hear from her. If she's in town, I'd be happy to meet."

Mrs Stoughton melts. "Sarah would love that. She's spoken of you over the years. I know she wants to say thank you."

His throat tightens again, and he shakes his head. "No thanks necessary."

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it before turning to look at Ziva. His partner is watching from behind dark glasses, but she swallows in such a way that Tony wonders if she's not almost as emotional as he is.

"Your husband is a wonderful man," Mrs Stoughton tells her. "He means so much to my family. You're lucky to have him."

He almost can't look at her, but Ziva nods and smiles. "I know I am," she says, voice deep and weak. "He means so much to me, too."

Mrs Stoughton smiles like that's the right answer, and then squeezes Tony's hand again. "I should let you get back to your lunch. It's so wonderful to see you."

"You too."

She pecks his cheek as she leaves, and Tony slowly folds himself back into his chair. His eyes settle on his water glass as he tries to process what just happened and what he's feeling. But he's just stunned.

"Old case?" Ziva guesses.

He raises his eyes and nods. "Yeah. Teenage girl abducted on her way home from school. Kept under a house for two weeks." He doesn't say the rest. He doesn't need to.

"You found her."

He leans forward as he returns to the present. "Yeah, me and another detective. We were working it…I got pretty close with her parents."

She reaches across the table, brushes her fingers against his. "Remember this."

"Hmm?"

"When you feel the world on your shoulders," she says. "When you wonder why you keep doing it. Remember this."

He knows what she's saying. This is the reason to keep going. Sometimes you give someone back a chance at life.

"You too."

She nods, smiles, pulls back her hand. And he smiles in the sunshine.

Today is a good day.


	3. Band-Aid

**Only two bits for this entry, but they're both longer than the others. And again, from Tony's perspective. I guess he's just easier.**

* * *

 _Band-Aid – Elephant Man_

She's had more severe injuries in her life. That time she was bombed in a bar in Morocco. The time she broke three ribs and an ankle when a parachute jump went wrong. The car accident after Berlin that he knows she still feels in her shoulder some days. Literally everything that happened to her in Somalia. In the grand scheme of things, this injury isn't a big deal. He knows she'll be fine (probably). But his heart won't stop racing and his hands won't stop shaking because it just _looks_ so bad. And, okay, the fact that it was a guy twice Tony's size who threw the punch that did this to her kind of has his blood pressure at dangerous levels.

He won't tell her that. She wouldn't appreciate it one bit.

That delicate jaw of hers is so badly dislocated that it's jammed open, her mouth stuck hanging as wide as it will go. Blood trickles from a giant cut above her eye that he thinks is probably going to leave a wicked scar, and the socket is beginning to swell. He's unsure whether this is from the punch she took or the table she fell on afterwards. He assumes the latter. And he assumes Ziva did not see the elbow that Tony gave to the guy's neck in response.

He could ask one of the ER nurses rushing to and fro if they could spare an ice pack for the throbbing joint, but he'd rather not draw Ziva's attention to it. Besides, he's supposed to be watching out for her tonight, not hogging all the attention for himself.

He's eyeing off the box of latex gloves on the shelf and wondering whether he would turn one into an animal when she pokes his leg. He raises an eyebrow in question as he turns his head to look at her, and she waves her cell phone at him. She can't talk, and they couldn't find anything to write on. So she has taken to communicating with him via text message despite only sitting two feet apart. He looks at his phone in his hand that he's turned to silent and reads her newest message.

 _Why aren't you making fun of me?_

He purses his lips before he answers. Why _isn't_ he making fun of her? She looks like the freaking Elephant Man, and if it were McGee in her position now, Tony knows he would have rattled off at least 50 jokes at his expense.

But Ziva isn't McGee.

He feigns ignorance on the issue. "Why would I?"

She types again. Another text arrives. _Because it is what you do when I look bad._

It's a kick to the guts that he's positive she didn't intend to land. She's joking because she's nervous and she wants him to reassure her it's going to be fine. She has resisted looking at herself in the mirror or her cell phone camera, so she doesn't know the extent of her disfigurement. But she clearly feels it—she can't close her mouth, for God's sake, and he's not even sure that her vision is okay in her swelling eye. He doesn't like that she has him pegged as the kind of person to make fun of his friends when they're down (he's got to stop doing that). But he tries to lift his game at reassuring her.

"Ziva, you're low hanging fruit right now."

She doesn't need to text him. He understands her question from the furrowing of her brow.

"It's too easy," he explains. She continues to stare, blood trickling down, and it _freaks him out_. "I know how to be nice and compassionate, okay?" he defends.

That draws another text. _Is it because I look grotesque?_

He shifts uncomfortably on the side of the bed. "That's a strong word."

 _An appropriate one? Are you worried I will be disfigured for life?_

He sighs. No, he's not. But also yes, he is. "You're not disfigured."

She types furiously for a moment, and his eyes drift around the ER bay. He wonders what could he use to knock himself out right now.

 _If you were not worried, you would make fun of me. Be normal._

He meets her bloodied eyes and reaches within him to offer an uncomfortable insult. "You look like one of those clown heads at the state fair with the big mouths that you have to throw the little balls into."

She grunts and types. _Thank you._

It bothers him that she means it. "Does it hurt?"

Ziva shakes her head and looks away. It's clearly a lie. She's been trembling intermittently since they arrived, and even with her face distorted he can see her wince. He puts his hand on her free one and leans in.

"Ziva," he says, switching to the more intimate tone he reserves for her only. " _Does it hurt?_ "

She lets out a little moan, and he's surprised when she leans forward to rest her forehead on his shoulder, as if she's bone tired and over everything. He feels no desire to make fun of her right now.

"I'm sorry it's taking so long," he says uselessly. He rests his cheek against her and reaches up to stroke the hair on the back of her head. He hopes it's soothing. He feels her moving and then, without lifting her head, she holds up her phone.

 _Can you try to pop it back in?_

Her jaw? She's got to be joking. "Not a chance in hell."

Her arm drops heavily on the mattress. Her foot starts jiggling. He strokes her hair some more.

"Let them give you some painkillers."

She grunts in a decidedly disagreeable way and pulls back again. He understands her reluctance to be under the influence. This is a woman with a history of staying alive only by staying in control and eliminating vulnerabilities. But Tony has assessed tonight's threat level as low.

"I'm going to be here the whole time," he reassures her, and throws in a smile for good measure. "Ain't nobody getting past me."

"You fixed yet?"

They both jump at Gibbs' loud voice and pull apart, and Tony can't help but think that their boss was probably waiting for the _exact_ moment to make him look like a useless idiot. He looks over his shoulder with a glare, and witnesses the moment when Gibbs sees Ziva's face. His usual straight expression cracks into something that reminds Tony of a cartoon. His eyes bug, his mouth falls open and he takes half a step back before his mouth snaps shut again and he looks away. Tony glares harder. _Don't you dare give her a reason to worry._

"Specialist should be down soon," he says with an edge.

Gibbs nods and slowly approaches the two of them from the side, as if they're snakes ready to strike. He peeks up at Ziva again, and Tony wants to smack him. "You okay, David?"

She nods. Tony does the talking. Not much different from usual.

"Dislocation," he says. "Obviously. Not sure about the eye yet. Big cut, and maybe a fracture."

"What happened?"

"Ziva tried to break up a bar fight with her face," he replies. This brings a sound of protest of out his partner, and Tony smiles sweetly and revises. "I'm sorry. Ziva _did_ break up a bar fight with her face."

She grunts again, but he thinks it's a grunt of approval. She reaches to the little table that one of the nurses wheeled in but can't quite reach it. Tony grabs the tissue he assumes she was going for, and then oh-so carefully dabs up some of the blood that's creeping towards her eye. She winces, and he whispers an apology for hurting her. But she shakes her head and taps his shoulder. He looks down. There is a bloodstain on his grey wool jacket. He feels generous with absolution tonight.

"Don't worry about it."

She lifts her good eyebrow and types again. _You must be very worried if you are not angry that I have stained your suit._

He ignores that and looks at Gibbs. He's looking at Ziva with grossed out fascination. Tony wants to _kick_ him. "I didn't know you were coming."

Gibbs' eyes flick to Tony. "You said she was in hospital."

"Who's taking care of the beefcake who hit her?"

"It's under control," Gibbs assures him, then eyes Tony with suspicion. "He's having some breathing difficulties."

Tony's elbow throbs with the news. He hopes he crushed the guy's windpipe. "Oh," he says, as if this information isn't that interesting, and he's saved from explaining himself by a new doctor arriving in Ziva's bay. He looks between Tony, Ziva and Gibbs and smiles politely.

"Hello, Ziva. I'm Dr Ford, the maxillofacial specialist here."

Ziva lifts her hand to gesture hello, then points between Tony and Gibbs. Tony takes the intros for her, and then moves off the bed so that Dr Ford can start prodding Ziva's face and jaw.

"Has this happened before?"

Ziva grunts a _no_ , and then her eyes flick to Tony. He lifts his eyebrows, she blinks at him, and he nods.

"She's never dislocated her jaw," he tells Dr Ford. "But she fractured that eye socket before. Back in 2009. And she's broken her nose a few times, but nothing recent."

Dr Ford glances at him with fleeting suspicion that gets Tony's hackles up, but he moves on quickly. "And how did this happen?"

"Bar fight," Tony replies, and hears Gibbs' heavy sigh. They're always getting into bar fights.

Correction: _Ziva's_ always getting them into bar fights.

"And the previous fracture?"

The air goes still for a moment. _Oh, just a kidnapping and months of torture at the hands of terrorists._

"Field work," he finally says. "You should see the other guy."

"Your X-Ray was clear," Ford tells Ziva. "Nothing broken. Just relax and I'll pop your jaw back in and you'll feel much better."

Tony tries not to wince as the doctor shoves his fingers in her mouth and applies what looks like way too much pressure to her face. Her hand bunches the bed sheets and Tony's forms a fist in sympathy. He hears Gibbs groan under his breath at the display. Ziva's eyes are downcast and unfocused, and he watches with horror as a tear stained with blood leaks out of her swelling eye. The sight of it propels him forward to grip her hand in comfort. She doesn't look at him, but holds on to his hand until Dr Ford _finally_ clicks her jaw back into its proper position. She lets out a moan that is dripping with relief.

"All fixed," Dr Ford says, and then instructs Ziva to make small movements to test the position. Tony sends Gibbs to get some water, and squeezes Ziva's hand.

"Better?"

"So much better," she sighs.

"We'll get that cut cleaned and stitched," Dr Ford tells her. "And I'll send you home with some painkillers. Keep that cheekbone iced, and you'll be fine."

He leaves with Tony and Ziva's thanks, and Tony returns to his seat on the bed. He flashes her a smile that is born of relief.

"See? No need to worry about disfigurement. At least, nothing more than your usual day-to-day disfigurement that you carry with you." It's so much easier to joke now that the threat has passed.

Ziva pinches his thigh just a little too hard. "What did you do to that guy that left him with breathing difficulties?"

He gives her a look of wide-eyed innocence. "Nothing. He was pretty big. Maybe he had a heart attack."

She eyes him with suspicion, but Gibbs returns with a cup of water and saves his butt from further questioning.

"Here," he says, handing it over. "Couldn't find any vodka, so water will have to do."

"Thank you, Gibbs."

He smiles kindly for all of half a second before reaching over and smacking _both_ of them upside the head. "One more bar fight and you're both on desk duty for six months. Got it?"

"It was Ziva's fault!" Tony protests, and he receives another head slap.

"Throw her under the bus and you'll get six more," he warns, and Tony can't tell if he's joking. "Take her home, make sure she has her painkillers, and I'll see you both at 0800 tomorrow." He leans in to kiss Ziva's cheek briefly, and then turns and leaves.

"No rest for the wicked," he sighs.

She pokes his thigh again. "Thank you for being worried about me."

He smiles, but reminds her of the argument she's held on to tonight. "I thought you didn't want me to be worried."

"I didn't." She smiles. They both she's lying.

"Well, sweetcheeks, who else will I worry about if not you?"

She doesn't reply, but they both know the answer. _No one_. There is no one of earth he worries about more than his disfigured carnival clown ninja with the penchant for barroom brawls.

…

 _Band-Aid – Comfort_

It is the strangest sensation when he is finally lifted carefully out of the car. He can't feel the pain, exactly. He knows he is hurt, probably quite badly. He expects that he has broken some bones, and he's aware that he's lost a lot of blood. But it's not _pain_ that he feels. It's more like a pressure over every single millimeter of his body, but especially in his head. His head feels like it's about to explode. The chaos he senses swirling around him does not help.

He looks up as something wet lands on his face. He assumes it is blood, but there is a bright light in the sky and he sees rain coming down. Was it raining when he crashed? He tries to lift his head but a man with strong hands holds his head and tells him to be still.

Another man looms into view. "What's your name, buddy?"

He has a moment of blind panic before he remembers. "Tony. Tony DiNozzo." His voice sounds weird to his ears.

"Do you know what happened?"

The panic returns. His mind is a blank. He tries to shake his head, but the first man reminds him not to do that. "Driving?" he guesses.

"Try to stay calm," the second man tells him, and Tony realizes he's saying this from the cover of an ambulance. When did they put him in an ambulance? "We're taking you to hospital. You're just going to feel a little prick—"

He passes out.

When he wakes there is utter disorientation. The light is so bright he thinks there must be a spotlight on him. His body feels like it is being squeezed and pricked all over. And for all the pain he didn't feel before, he now feels more pain than he ever has in his life. He tries to scream but he can't even hear it, and he's not sure he made a noise until a woman's face appears above his. She smiles kindly and he knows he's in trouble.

"Tony? Can you hear me?"

He tries to nod but finds it impossible.

"Don't move your head, Tony," she tells him. "We've got some blocks holding you still. I'm Enid. Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," he guesses. His breath comes back warm against his face. Is he wearing an oxygen mask?

"Good," Enid says, and she really appears to be proud of him. "Do you know why?"

He tries to think. There's nothing in his memory. But he can guess again. "Pain."

"Where do you feel pain, Tony?" Enid asks.

What a stupid question. "All over," he pants right before he feels a sharp pain in his leg. He cries out and tries to pull himself away, but then there are hands all over him, keeping him still. He begins to panic.

"Did you feel that?" Enid checks.

"Yes," he manages. His face feels wet again. Is it raining?

He feels more sudden pain in his stomach. "Does that hurt?" Enid asks.

He can only moan. If this is a hospital, shouldn't they be stopping the pain? Another light appears in his eyes and he squeezes his eyes shut against it. What the hell is going on?"

"Where does it hurt the most, Tony?" Enid asks. So many questions.

"Stomach," he groans, and then coughs when he feels something at the back of his throat. In the next split second he feels like he's downing. He's sure he's going to die—Christ, where's Ziva?—and suddenly there's something in his mouth and down his throat. The drowning sensation goes away but the fear of dying does not.

Enid smiles kindly before throwing more questions at him. "You were in a car accident. Do you remember?"

He tried to shake his head.

"Don't move your head. " How many times have they told him that? "Do you know what the date is?"

Does he _ever_ know what the date is? That doesn't seem like something he would know. "Tuesday." He's pretty sure.

"Tony, we're going to take you upstairs to give you an MRI scan," Enid tells him. "We're going to take photos of your insides so we know what's going on."

He literally could not care less. "Ziva," he blurts. "I need Ziva."

"Is that your wife?"

"Yes." He does not possess the energy or brain function to explain the reality.

"We'll make sure the police get in touch with her," Enid tells him. "Just try to relax and we'll fix you up, okay?"

He just worries they won't find Ziva. "NCIS," he tells her.

Enid frowns, and looks at someone to his right. "What did he say?"

He passes out.

It's much quieter when he wakes up again. Still bright, but the sensation of chaos that surrounded him before is gone. He doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

A young woman with a perky ponytail looms over him a shoots him a bright smile. "Hi, Tony!" she greets him, bubbling like champagne. "It's so good to see you awake. Don't try to move our head, okay?"

How many times are they going to tell him that? And _why_ do they keep telling him that?

"We've got you on morphine now, so you shouldn't be feeling as much pain."

He groans. Morphine is _so bad_ for him. And as an aside, it's doing a terrible job at pain management.

"I'm going to get Dr Berry, so just relax," Champagne tells him. "Your dad's here to keep you company."

He shifts his eyes to the other side as Gibbs looms into view. _Dad?_

"Boss, not dad," Gibbs tells Champagne. Tony relaxes. "You did a number on yourself, DiNozzo."

Tony tries to remember what led to him lying in a room in pain with Gibbs and a bubbly woman. His memory fails. "What?"

Gibbs' expression doesn't change. "You had a car accident."

Car accident? A memory of holding Ziva's hand right before Bodnar smashed into them hits him like a slap, and he gasps. Panic rises. Did she get out? "Is Ziva okay?"

Gibbs nods. "She's on her way."

The news calms him only slightly. "Did you get Bodnar?"

Gibbs stares at him for a long moment. "Wrong car accident, DiNozzo," he tells him, but that just confuses Tony more. "That was a year ago."

Was it? Seems like it just happened. And if it just happened… "Is Ziva okay?"

"She wasn't in the car," Gibbs tells him slowly. Worry starts sinking into the creases around his eyes. Why is he worried if Ziva is okay?

"What happened?"

"You drove your car into a tree," Gibbs tells him, matter of fact. Intentionally? "That's another car you've lost. What is that, four or five you've destroyed?"

He squeezes his eyes shut and wills the memory to come to him. There's nothing. "What tree?"

"I think it was an oak."

He blinks as Gibbs tries to smile. Why is he smiling? None of this makes any sense. But he _knows_ Ziva was in the car with him. He was holding her goddamn hand. She was _there_. "Is Ziva okay?"

"She's fine," Gibbs says. He sounds like he's trying to win an argument. "How do you feel? Is your head okay?"

He pauses to take stock, and then wishes he didn't. God, there's pain everywhere. "No good."

Gibbs buts a weathered hand gently on his shoulder. "Hang in there, kid," he says with far more affection Tony is used to seeing. "It'll get better."

He's pretty sure that's a lie. He closes his eyes and wills himself away from the pain.

It's quieter still when he wakes up again. Someone has finally turned out the light, and while he's still in pain he finds that he doesn't care as much. He slowly moves sandpaper dry eyes around the room—not his bedroom, hospital room—until they stop on Ziva sitting on a chair beside his bed and checking her cell phone. He remembers that he was worried about her before, but he can't remember why. In any case, it's nice to see her when he feels so terrible.

"Hey."

His voice isn't terribly impressive, but it's effective enough. Ziva lifts her head, and the look of strained worry in her eyes hurts his heart until she favors him with a warm smile and stands to lean over him.

"Shalom." Her voice is soothing. "It is good to see you awake." She reaches out a hand to touch his cheek, and he catches the familiar smell of her. The pain is still there all over his body, but he cares even less. This is what comfort is.

"What happened?"

A worried crease forms between her eyebrows. "Do you remember?"

He closes his eyes and thinks. There were doctors and an EMT… "Car accident." He doesn't remember the crash.

Her hand strokes. "Yes. Are you in pain?"

He thinks again. "Yeah. But it's okay."

She nods as if this makes sense. He's struck by the thought that her eyes are probably the most familiar thing in his life. He's relieved she's here.

"I was worried about you." Her voice fails by the end of the sentence, but he hears what she doesn't say. _Couldn't live without you, I guess._

He wonders if he could die without her.

"No need to worry about me, sweetcheeks." He tries to find bravado. "I'm indestructible. Like a cockroach."

One eyebrow lifts as her head tilts to the side. "We can agree on that." She smiles. He takes no offence. He tries to reach her other hand, the one that's braced on the mattress, but it's too hard to reach. He's too tired. He thinks he brushes her hip.

"You are tired."

"Yeah. Are you?" he asks hopefully. Wouldn't it be rude to fall asleep on her?

She smiles. Her hand is still on his cheek. "Yes. We should both rest. You go to sleep."

"You're touching my face." Maybe she forgot. But she nods easily.

"Yes. Is it bothering you?"

He shakes his head—hey, he can finally move his head! "No."

"Then be quiet or it will go away." How very Ziva.

"Don't go away." Was that too pathetic? Too raw?

Her thumb strokes his cheekbone. It's nice. "Go to sleep."

He closes his eyes, and a moment later he feels her hair brush his face before her lips press against his other cheek. He smiles.

"Were you worried I was going to die?" How is it that he thinks it's fine to tease her about that? What the hell is wrong with their relationship.

He hears her sigh. "Of course. Because what would I do then?" She sounds so serious that he has to open his eyes again. Her expression steals his breath. He doesn't think he's ever seen her look so scared.

"I'm okay," he feels the need to reassure her, even if he has no idea whether that is the truth.

She gives him a tight nod. "Rest. Get better."

"Ziva?"

"Yes?"

He stares at her. He doesn't know how to say it. Or whether he should. So he doesn't. Not aloud, anyway. But when her expression melts, he's pretty sure she heard it anyway. Her thumb makes another pass over his cheek.

"I know," she whispers. "Go to sleep."

He nods. Closes his eyes. She doesn't move her hand. He doubts it will be there when he wakes again, but this is enough.

This is what comfort is.


	4. Glass

At the beginning of this I mentioned something about varying degrees of quality in each chapter. This is a pretty good example of that.

* * *

 _Glass – Fractured_

"You are drinking again."

He blinks slowly as he focuses for a moment on the warm fuzz inside his head, and then unleashes a lob-sided smile. "Good work, Nancy Drew," he says, and then reconsiders the analogy. He thinks the likelihood of his partner understanding the reference is low. "Nancy Drew was a girl detective," he explains. "And I mean, she was actually a girl. A young one. I'm not using 'girl' as a generically derogatory term for women."

She frowns. He stifles a burp and fingers his empty glass. Glances around his apartment. He thinks he needs to explain himself further. "She was a _girl_ , and a super sleuth. And so you see why I have drawn the parallel between Nancy Drew and you." He pauses his explanation as a new thought occurs to him. "Nancy Drew and You. Sounds like the title of some kind of self-help book. I'm not sure what it would be about, but I'm going to reserve ownership of the title for when I have the time to put pen to paper. I know stuff about stuff, Ziva. I'm pretty sure I could write a best seller."

Her sigh is in danger of bringing down the house. "Tony." Disappointment smothers his name to the point where he can barely decipher it. It hits home, and the sharp edge of shame starts scraping away the warm fuzz of drunk. But shame isn't something he's interested in feeling right now—he had his heart set on sad when he cracked open the whiskey bottle—so he blocks it out and focuses on being his normal charming self to try to make her (and him) forget why she feels so let down right now.

"Do you know what I've always wanted to tell you, Ms David?"

Her expression turns wary so fast that it's almost comical. "I do not want to know," she says firmly. But he's not interested in being spoken to firmly.

He leans in slightly and smiles. "I admire you." The sentiment is sincere, but, as is typical of her, she dismisses sincerity and rolls her eyes. He feels a flash of anger that she's learnt not to trust kind words.

"I do not want to talk about me," she starts, but he's not interested in that either.

"You don't believe me," he states. Why does it hurt _him_ so much to know she doesn't believe this? "I get why you don't. You've been screwed around, 'scuse the language. But it's the truth. I never met anyone as gutsy as you. Not even Gibbs." He shakes his head, and then waits a moment for his brain to catch up with the movement. "I don't know if I know about even half of the crap that's happened to you. And I'm actually kind of terrified of knowing, but, I mean, tell me anything and I'll listen to you all day if it helps."

"Tony, stop," she cuts in, and he can't understand why.

"I was complimenting you," he points out. Maybe she didn't get that? But she nods.

"Yes, I know. Just stop."

He blinks. Hurts. "You don't want a compliment? From _me?_ Why can't you take a compliment from me? I'm, like, the one you should be taking compliments from every day." He comes to another stop as his brain goes off on another tangent and briefly derails his anger. "Hey, you remember that guy? That cop whose wife died?" He doesn't want for her to reply, but just assumes she's caught on. "He told us we gotta cherish each other, you know? And he was right. That guy was so right. And I don't say it because I'm not as gutsy as you, not by half. But I should. I should say it every day. I cherish you, and Christ, Ziva, I don't ever want you to go away. Because I need you to be there for me to compliment." He stops and stares at her impassive face. "You get me?"

She nods. "I get you," she says, but he gets the feeling she's just telling him what he wants to hear because she brushes it off without further acknowledgement. Hurt steals his breath. "Now sit down before you fall down."

She guides him back to his couch and he falls with what feels like total grace into the cushions. He wants her to follow him, but she sits on the coffee table in front of him and crosses both her legs and her arms.

"Tony, you drink like this when you feel hopeless," she states, displaying an unnerving and unwelcome insight into his habits. "But I do not understand what is making you feel that way lately."

His skin prickles and feathers ruffle at the spotlight. Or maybe her confidence in her insight. Goddamn Nancy Drew. And how dare she try to push herself into his head right now when he's giving her so much and she's giving him _nothing_ back. He shuts her down. "I'm perfectly okay, Ziiiiva," he drawls, and then whips her with a sharp smile. "This is just a relaxation technique I picked up."

She sighs, and the disappointment that continues to roll off her is suffocating. "Is it the job?" she pushes. "Is it Gibbs? Is it me?"

He scowls at her for sinking all three baskets. "I said I'm fine." He lets an edge creep into his voice that normally he wouldn't like. Particularly when speaking to her. But he just doesn't care now. She's not being open. She's blocking his every attempt to connect, and she's not _hearing_ what he's telling her.

She watches him. Studies him. Narrows her eyes as she tries to worm her way under his skin. Or read his mind. He breaks eye contact and stands up, wobbles as his head spins, then makes a beeline for the kitchen. _Shut her down_.

He's trying to bash more ice out of the ice tray when he hears her behind him.

"So. It is me."

He tips his head back to swear at the ceiling. "Ziva, can you please just—" He stops himself a millisecond before he swears at _her_.

She pushes him. "What?"

He closes his eyes. Breathes. Foregoes ice and throws his drink back neat. Then turns and regards her. He's expecting to see her chin raised and pressed forward in defiance. Standard Ziva fighting posture. But her chin is bowed to her chest. Her arms are crossed, but her shoulders are slumped. She looks exhausted. He wavers, but then commits.

"I just want to be drunk and sad on my own."

Her eyes lift. The guilt in them strikes him. "If you tell me what I am doing to make you sad, I may be able to fix this for you."

He doesn't mean to, but he laughs. Surely he knows they're beyond fixing now? He steps over to her, slowly so that he won't fall, and positions himself so that he leans over her. She doesn't react to his attempt to overshadow her. Just tips her head back so that she keeps eye contact. He can almost feel her lips under his.

"You don't want my compliments," he tells her. Why isn't she _hearing_ it? "You don't want me to cherish you. So go home, Nancy Drew," he tells her. "Say goodnight."

She doesn't move. Not for five full breaths. The woman doesn't know how to be intimidated. Then she slips around the side of him and takes his bottle of whiskey from the counter. Joke's on her; he's got another.

"Goodnight," she says. Her disappointment smothers his heart. She slips out the door as silently as she moves, and he stands in the kitchen, staring at the door until his eyes burn to close.

They're beyond fixing. But drinking…drinking will stop him caring.

…

 _Glass – Smash_

It has been an age since the last time she threw a tantrum. But tonight, as soon as her front door slams shut, she stomps through her apartment like a hormonal 13-year-old to her bedroom, snatches her pillow off the bed, lifts it to her face and _screams_ until she is out of breath. It is not as though anger is an unfamiliar emotion to her, but as an adult she had learned to channel it into her work, her missions. Things that matter.

This is not to say that her anger tonight is misguided or juvenile. Rather, it is born of years of frustration from living her life in a male-dominated field.

She is sick to death of the games. Of the hoops she is made to jump through when her male colleagues get to coast through unscathed.

She takes great joy in tearing off her stiff, tailored court clothes—a skirt and heels, _of course_ —and hurling them into the hamper so hard that she feels a twinge in her shoulder. She considers changing into athletic gear and running off her fury, but then she remembers the vodka in the freezer and it seems like a more attractive option. She dresses for comfort, and then stomps her way back to the kitchen.

She gets a glass out of the cabinet and slams it shut. When the front door opens again, she repeats the process without looking up. If she is going to be angry and drunk, then he can damn well be drunk and supportively frustrated.

"Hello?" he calls from the entryway.

She stomps to the freezer and grabs the vodka. "In here," she tells him. Her voice shakes, and she feels her cheeks burn. She holds the frozen bottle to her forehead as she crosses back to their glasses.

She is expecting the touch, but she still tenses when his hand slides around her waist from behind and he kisses her neck. "Hey," he says against her ear, and then immediately reacts to her tension. "Wow. That's a reaction. Are you okay?"

She slams the bottle against the countertop even as she tells herself not to take it out on him. "No."

He steps back and turns to lean against the counter, facing her. "How was court?"

She glances at him with a scowl—it is not aimed at him, but answers his question. He winces for her.

"That good, huh?"

She stomps back over to the freezer to get the ice tray, and then stomps back again. She upends the tray and whacks it hard against the counter, sending ice cubes scattering across the kitchen. She tosses the tray into the sink with a clatter and grabs a handful of ice for each glass. He watches the display calmly.

"What happened?"

"The stupid defense attorney tried to destroy my credibility." It's the thought that has been on repeat in her head since she left the courtroom, but she hasn't voiced it until now. Her hands shake with her voice.

"Did he trip you up?"

She twists off the lid of the vodka bottle and tosses it aside. "No. I answered his stupid questions."

"Okay," he says carefully. "Did you answer them like you thought they were stupid questions?"

That earns him a glare. "I know how to play the game, Tony."

Her peacemaking other half is the picture of calm and innocence. "I know you do." He leaves it at that, knowing that he does not need to request further information. She is on a furious roll.

"I did fine," she assures him harshly, and pours them both large drinks. "The case is still solid. I am just angry that he made me work for it on every single question when there was no need to."

"Sometimes they do that," he points out, and somehow manages not to sound condescending.

She slides a glass over to him and picks up hers. "I am going to find out where he lives and run him over with my car the next time he steps outside."

Tony nods slowly. "Great idea," he says, humoring her.

"Asshole," she mutters, and sips her drink. She feels it work its way into her veins immediately, and so she takes another sip before continuing her rant. "He would have to be one to defend the scum he does."

"Yeah."

She points at him. "The man he is trying to set free beat a woman to death with his bare hands, Tony," she seethes.

"I know," he says softly. He is on her side. He has her back.

She points at herself. "And yet I am the bad guy because I did not want to sleep with him?" She shakes her head. "No. Not fair." She throws back another gulp.

Tony frowns, and his calm face drops. "What?"

For a moment she doesn't understand his confusion. Then she remembers that she never told him about the time the defense attorney in question repeatedly hit on her. It was before they were together, so she saw no reason to mention it. Now she finds herself embarrassed, although she is not sure why. She stomps to the fridge to avoid looking at him.

"Years ago," she says as she wrenches the door open and then sticks her head inside. She's not sure what she's looking for, but finds half a block of cheese and supposes that will do. "At the Marine Ball."

"Which one?"

"You were not there."

"What's his name?"

"It does not matter." She slams the fridge door and reaches for the cheese knife from the block on the counter.

"I can find out in three seconds, Ziva," he points out.

She faces him with an expression she knows he has learned not to argue with. "His name is not the point of the story," she spells out. "The point is that he is using the courtroom to settle his personal vendettas. I mean, would you do that?" She doesn't wait for him to answer. "No. Of course not. Because you are not an _asshole_ and you respect people."

He steps towards her, and she can tell that he thinks she is ready to be calmed down. He is wrong. "Ziva—"

"You cannot win!" she cuts in, waving the knife as she makes her argument. "You know, I have spent my life working hard to be taken seriously. I worked ten times harder than the men in the IDF and Mossad to be seen as equal. Not better, just equal. And then _this man_ ," she stabs the air, "tries to destroy _my reputation_ that I have worked hard to build simply because I would not sleep with him! And yet, if I _had_ slept with him, then he would have painted me as some kind of unprofessional slut who makes bad decisions! I cannot _win_ , Tony! And it is not even because of anything I did! _He_ propositioned _me!_ "

She slams her vodka glass down with fury as she makes her righteous point, and it promptly shatters in her hand. Tony leaps forward as she swears and turns to the sink to thrust her bleeding hand under the faucet.

"You okay?" he asks from beside her.

Clearly not. But she is embarrassed again and even angrier. "It is fine," she says through gritted teeth.

He sighs her name and leaves the kitchen, and she uses the time between then and him returning with a towel and her medical kit to squeeze out as much blood as she possibly can.

"Is it bad?" has asks when he returns.

"No."

He appears beside her again and reaches for her hand. "Let me see."

"I do not need you to take care of me," she snaps.

He gives up his calm and snaps back at her. "Just let me _help_."

She swallows her argument and holds her wet hand out to him. He runs his fingertips gently over her palm as he feels for slivers, and she winces slightly when he finds them. She will not need the hospital, but some homemade medical attention is necessary. He tugs her wrist.

"Come sit down."

They settle at the kitchen island and she rests her hand on the towel he brought as he goes to work with a pair of tweezers. She doesn't like watching the process, and so lets her eyes settle on the top if his head as he carefully finds and pulls glass from her flesh.

"You're letting him get to you," he tells her, and he's back to being calm. But she can tell that he's not going to let her keep ranting.

"He did get to me," she replies.

"Why?" he asks. "You're better than him."

She wants to roll her eyes, but his pride in her touches her, and she feels her anger beginning to fade. "You do not even know who he is," she points out, although there is no fight in her tone. "He might be a lot better than me."

He lifts his head to look at her, and he clearly doesn't believe that. "Ziva, not even I've managed to get to you like this."

She can think of one time in Israel when yes, he absolutely got to her like this, and he ended up on his back with her gun pressed to his chest. Shame burns her cheeks, and she casts her eyes down. She must apologize for that, but now is not the time. "These days when you challenge me over and over, it is usually because you want me to think harder. Be more strategic, or think about something a different way. You are not trying to push me down."

He doesn't answer that. Just lets it sit. He must sense more is coming.

"I want a reputation for being a good agent, Tony. Not for being that woman who used to be Mossad, or who sleeps around, or who tortures information out of people."

He pulls another sliver out of her hand and strokes his fingertips over the spot to check he didn't miss anything. "Well, I don't think you have a reputation for any of those things anymore," he says plainly. "And even if you did, so what? They're not your issues, Ziva. They're other peoples' issues. Don't take them on."

This time, she does roll her eyes. "I wish it were that simple. But the fact of the matter is that if an attorney has a problem with me, then it becomes an issue for me. And Gibbs and McGee and our case. It could sink us."

He lifts his head again and covers her hand with his. "Then it's a good thing that you have a reputation for being an excellent agent."

She is dubious. "You have to say that because you are my partner."

Tony screws his face up and shakes his head. "No, I don't."

She smiles and shakes her head to herself. The man has always been honest.

"Just keep doing what you're doing, Ziva," he tells her. "I know you have to fight harder. I don't know how to change that. But I've got your back the whole way."

She stares at him for a moment as love and vodka warm her veins. She is a very, very lucky woman. "I know you are just trying to stop me being angry, but you were successful so I do not mind."

He grins. "I'm getting pretty good at it, right?"

"Yes," she admits, and then leans forward. He meets her halfway for a cozy kiss that melts her even more.

Tony pulls back an inch, but doesn't open his eyes. "Which attorney was it?" he whispers.

"It does not matter," she whispers back, and kisses him again.

"Was it Erik Samuels?" he asks, pulling back even further. "I've seen him ogling your ass a lot."

"Tony," she sighs, and reaches for the antiseptic.

He holds up his hand. "Okay. I'll find out on my own."

"And then do absolutely nothing with the information," she says, ending his thought for him. "Because if my partner were to step in to fight my battles for me, that might not help matters. Even if I understand why you would want to do such a thing."

Tony nods with innocence. "Of course. I just want to know so that I can glare at him the next time I see him."

She smirks. "You have my back."

"That's what I said." He takes the antiseptic off her and squeezes off enough to work into her palm. She lifts her free hand to run her fingers through his hair with affection.

"I am glad you are here."

He looks up at her and cocks an eyebrow. "Generally, or…?"

"Always," she tells him. "But particularly when I need a counterpoint. And back up." She smiles. "And a best friend."

"And a doctor," he adds with a smile, and lifts her hand to his mouth to kiss her wrist. "I wear many hats."

And lucky for Ziva, he wore them all very well.

…

 _Glass – Aquarium_

He doesn't think he's been to an aquarium since middle school. He doesn't recall a single date spent amongst the sea life, or a single sailor who met their end in artificially watery depths. And as a childless man in his mid-40s without any great interest in animals of any kind, he doesn't have a good reason to spend a morning or afternoon wandering around the exhibits. The only reason he's here now is to have a meeting away from prying eyes. But as he sits in front of the enormous glass window at the penguin exhibit, he wonders if maybe he should have made a habit of coming before now.

He can't count how many penguins there are, or what species they are. There is a plaque by the 15ft wall that would give him all the information he needs, but it'll probably be in French and there are about 10 kids and a handful more parents crowded the area. Even amid the kids' ear-splitting squeals and laughter, he still finds watching the penguins dive and torpedo calming. _Down, along, up. Down, along, up. Down, along, up._ It would be a form of meditation if it were not necessary for him to be on high alert.

Maybe when this is over, he'll come back here. Maybe when this is over, she might come with him.

Somehow, he senses her coming. Perhaps he heard her footfalls under all the noise bouncing off the rock walls and glass enclosures, and recognized her gait. He feels the hair on his arms rise, and her presence after all this time is at once a relief and a source of anxiety that knots his stomach. He knows she'll expect him to play that anxiety down. He expects the same of her.

He keeps his eyes on the penguins as she sits on the bench beside him. It's not like old times. She doesn't sit close enough that their sides touch like she did in the past. But she's close enough that he can feel her body heat and smell her moisturizer. The same moisturizer as before. His heart clenches painfully, but he ignores it as best he can.

"One of those penguins has been shooting me looks all morning," he tells her, as if they've already been talking all morning. "I can't tell if it's flirting or suspicious or me."

"How do you know it is the same penguin?" she asks.

He purses his lips. "You know, that's actually a good point. Maybe all of them are eyeballing me."

"You sound paranoid."

He allows a wry smile. "Why? Because I left a vague message to set up a clandestine meeting in an aquarium, and now I'm accusing the birds of having a hidden agenda?"

She crosses her leg towards him. "Are you all right?" Her lilting voice is quiet, but the worry in it hugs him. Remembered intimacy draws his eyes closed for a moment. He pauses to breathe, to allow his heart to beat almost normally a few more times, before he looks at her.

He knew it would happen, and he'd thought he'd prepared for it. But when his heart shatters at the sight of her it still steals his breath.

 _That face…_

He manages not to crumble, but he knows the expression in those dark eyes. She understands he is struggling. Guilt flashes across her face before she turns her gaze to the glass and allows him a moment to get a handle on himself. The bitter part of him wishes she hadn't, either so that she can see what she's done, or so he can develop a grievance at her lack of grace. But that's not who she is—not with him—and it's why he loved her anyway.

 _Loves_ her.

He swallows, shakes his head to himself and tries to focus on why he reached out to her. "I think I'm under surveillance."

Her head turns a fraction in his direction, and although her expression remains neutral he is close enough to see her jaw tighten. "By whom?"

"I don't know."

"What happened?"

"Noticed the same car following me a few times. Seen the same couple of faces in a crowd a few too many times." He pauses. Breathes. "They've been in my apartment."

She turns her head. Meets his eyes. Her brow is creased. He notices her hair is darker again. Curlier. He likes it. "They are not doing a very good job of being covert."

He shrugs. "Unless…"

"Unless this is what they want you to see," she finishes.

He nods, and feels relief that she gets it. He has an ally. The best one he could hope for. He's not alone.

 _At lo levad._

She looks at the giant display around them. The penguins are still diving, hiding, playing. They swim right up to the glass and zip along in a straight line from one side of the viewing window to the other. Two little girls are running back and forth in front of the window with them, trying to keep up. They don't come close to catching them.

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes swing back to her. His heart clenches again. He clears his throat. "In Paris? Two days."

"Have you noticed—?"

"No." He shakes his head. "But that doesn't mean they're not on me. Hence this meeting under the sea. Creepy middle-aged men really stand out in this crowd, right?" And apparently, he's one of them. He's been on the receiving end of a few suspicious looks from mothers this morning, but at least the creepy middle-aged man in an aquarium has a friend now. Ziva David: his cover and his ally.

"Why Paris?"

His throat grows tight and he feels tears behind his eyes. To buy himself time, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together so tightly as to turn his knuckles white. "Because it's halfway to you. And I need you."

He hears her breath catch. It's faint and quick, but he hears it, and he doesn't know if it means that she is anxious over shouldering his affections, or if she welcomes them.

"Tony." His name is whispered, but it answers his question.

 _You are so loved._

He looks back over his shoulder at her and catches the tail end of a look of longing that breaks his heart again. He wants a do-over. He wants a lot of them.

She licks her lips and composes herself. "What did Gibbs say?"

He shakes his head. "I didn't tell him." At her arched eyebrow, he attempts an explanation. "He's not who he was," he tells her, and he can't keep the sadness from his voice. "The trust isn't there. Not anymore."

"What happened?" She sounds bewildered, and he understands why. They used to be a family. Gibbs used to be a father figure. A mentor. It's another loss that he mourns, but it's not one to dwell on now.

"One day I'll work it out and I'll tell you," he promises, and sits up straight again. "But on today's crisis, I thought you might still have some contacts who could…"

"Yes." Her nod is decisive. He feels the burden shift a little off his shoulders. They're still at the beginning of this—he has no idea who is tailing him or why—but now he has Ziva and a plan, and he feels better. The confusion doesn't feel as oppressive. The assumed outcome not as dire. He has the only pair of eyes he trusts watching his back again. They can deal with this.

"Ziva, I'm sorry to bring you back into this," he says, and he mostly means it. Of course he misses her at his side like she was his favored hand, arm, leg and half of his brain, but she needed to get out to preserve what remained of her mental health. He wanted to protect that for her. But he needs her on this. "I know you wanted to leave it behind—"

She cuts in with a shake of her head. "Whatever you need, Tony. I will help you. You are my partner. Always."

Always is a long time. He wants her to mean it, but he can't let himself hope.

"Where are you staying?"

He shrugs. "Not sure. Different place each night."

She nods in approval. "Good." She pauses. "I know a man in Germany. He would be a good place to start."

" _Wunderbar_."

She smiles, and his heart starts putting itself back together again. Silence falls and his eyes drift to the glass again. _Down, along, up. Down, along, up. Down, along, up._ Since she's been gone, he's been way down, and he's coasted along. He wants to go up again. Isn't it time?

He looks at her and searches for any sign on her face that she's thinking about him the way she's thinking about her. "Thank you for coming."

She turns to him as her expression softens, and he's reminded of late nights under glowing lamps and eye contact that assured him he was loved. He watches her eyes fill, and it only takes a millisecond for his to follow.

"I will always come for you, Tony." Her voice is thick and her tone tells him things he wants to believe. He has the urge to reach over and take her hand, but hesitates. She still seems too far away, and in the past he wouldn't have been so bold. But things are different now. He's never going to get a do-over. So he has to take opportunities where they come.

He reaches slowly so that she can pull away if she wants. But she doesn't. When his hand touches hers she holds on to him. He breathes easily.

"So. Back to Berlin, huh?"

She squeezes his hand with shared memory. "Yes. To begin with, at least."

A beginning. He just hopes that this trip to Berlin does not end like the last. At least this time they are holding hands before it.

"Then let's go."

* * *

Sigh. Oh well.


	5. Stranger

I still have a bunch of these on my hard drive, but I can't guarantee that I'll be able to finish enough of them to post in threes anymore. We're going to singles.

* * *

In eight years of living within arms' reach of each other, she has not seen him like this. The late night phone call that begged for her presence ( _"Ziva, I just really need you right now"_ ) told her he was in a desperate place. His request that she meet him at the ICU told her that things were about to go very bad. She expected that he would be stressed when she arrived just before midnight. But she wasn't expecting…this.

He is waiting by the elevator doors when they open, one arm wrapped tightly around his waist and his other hand raised to his mouth so he can bite his thumbnail. Tony is not, and has never been, a nail biter. And he is not usually so pale, or his body so taut. He looks like the briefest of touches might make him lash out, and so she stays a step away from him when she joins him on the floor. She will let him come to her, if he wants that.

"Tony?" She is not sure who the patient they've come to see is. If it were Gibbs or McGee he would have said so. Her gut is leaning towards his father, and that fills her with sadness. They two of them have made such great strides in recent times.

Tony stares at her for a beat with soul-deep desperation that hits her like a punch to the chest before he closes the gap between them and wraps his arms around her so tightly she actually gasps. Pressed together now, she can feel him shaking, and while she still has no idea what is going in she feels utterly overcome with protectiveness over him. She returns the embrace and lets him breathe into her neck. She will hold him as long as he needs.

"Thanks for coming," he says when he finally pulls back a few inches. His voice is strained and there are tears behind his eyes. His desperation and panic is so great that she feels it begin to seep through her skin.

"Is it your father?"

He lets out a brief, bitter chuckle as he shakes his head, and starts ushering her at speed down the hallway. "No, no, no," he says, and it comes out like a train. He glances over his shoulder and stops abruptly to turn around again. His arm slides heavily across her shoulders as she turns as well and he hugs her into his side. A nurse has appeared, and she looks concerned. Ziva gets the impression she is not supposed to be there.

"Mr DiNozzo?" the nurse questions.

"Ziva, my partner," he tells her. "She just got here."

The nurse eyes Ziva and then offers her a sympathetic smile. "Of course. Take your time, but keep it down."

Ziva nods, plays along with the white lie over her identity. "Yes, thank you."

Tony turns them again and his arm around her shoulders practically pushes her down the hall and into a darkened room. A woman lies on the bed, and her face is mostly obscured by an oxygen mask and a large bandage over her right eye. Her hair is short and silver, her skin pale. One arm is covered in a plaster cast from her hand to above the elbow, and one leg under the covers is bulky and elevated. Another cast, no doubt. Ziva does not think she recognizes her, and she looks to Tony in question. Her partner just stares at the woman with wide eyes, as if he expects her to pounce and attack him at any moment.

She has _never_ seen him like this.

"Who is she?" Ziva asks, and she is careful to keep her voice low so as not to startle him.

Tony's eyes barely flick in her direction, and he wraps his arms around himself again. When he speaks, his voice wavers. "According to the hospital, she's my mother."

And suddenly, his demeanor makes sense. His mother, Elizabeth Margaret DiNozzo, died of cancer 36 years ago. So the story goes.

She is stunned into paralyzed silence for a second or two before a hundred questions fill her head at once. She wants to start throwing them at him, but accepts that the majority of them are likely to align with the ones he must have and cannot answer. She puts her hand on his back and he quickly wraps his arm around her again. She gets the message. He cannot cope with this on his own. He cannot make himself ask the questions that need to be asked. He needs her to ask them for him, and to hold him up while she does it. She draws a deep breath and steps up to meet his needs without hesitation.

"Okay," she starts, and orders her thoughts. "How did you come to be here tonight, Tony?"

"I got a call when I was leaving work." His voice is almost even, and she wonders how much effort he is putting into that. "They said she'd been in an accident and that it didn't look good. That I should come."

"How did they find _you?_ "

"Police." He shakes his head, and he's clearly confused about it. "I don't know, exactly. They were gone by the time I arrived and I couldn't make myself call."

She is dubious about this, but holds herself back from telling him so just yet. "What kind of accident?"

He draws his breath with a shudder. "They think she was hit by a car. A passer-by found her on the side of the road."

She is even more dubious, but when she looks up at him she sees hope in his eyes. She gives him a squeeze and then leaves his side to approach the woman's. She has only seen Elizabeth DiNozzo in photographs, two or three at the most taken 40 years ago, and so she is not in a position to make a visual judgment of her identity. But she knows her partner's face better than her own, and she expects to see him in the woman's features. Except that with her eyes closed and the rest of her face obscured, she can't.

She looks over at Tony. "Does she look like her?" She is not sure he could reliably answer. Indeed, he shrugs and shakes his head.

"Kind of?" He is clearly unsure. "But it's been more than 30 years. She would have changed, and my memory is…faded." He sounds ashamed of the fact, and so she nods like that is completely understandable. And it is.

"Of course," she says softly, and then looks around. She spots a black handbag on the small table on the other side of the bed, and she has to resist leaning over her and snatching it. "Did you check her ID?"

He shakes his head and wraps his arms around himself again. For a moment, he can't meet her eyes. "I couldn't make myself. I need you to do it."

She nods and squeezes his arm as she passes him to walk around to the other side of the bed. The handbag is soft as butter and smells like leather—high end, no doubt. She feels Tony's heavy eyes on her as she slips her hand inside and pulls out a purse. As she flips it open she realizes how fast her own heart is beating. She is not sure what she is hoping to find.

Her drivers' license stares back at Ziva, and when she reads the information her heart squeezes. "Elizabeth Margaret DiNozzo," she reads aloud, and glances at him. His eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat before he takes a few shuffled steps towards her. "Lives in Georgetown," Ziva continues. "Date of birth 20 October 1945." Her heart squeezes again. She knows the date is correct. She studies the photo for a moment but her guess over its accuracy is as good as a stranger's.

She holds the license out to Tony, and he hesitates before taking it from her. Head bowed, he studies the card with a detective's frown. She watches his shoulders for any sign of rejection or sudden embrace of facts. But he barely moves.

"Maybe." His voice is a whisper, but she does not think it is intended. Shock and hope are pulling him out of the present and back to the past. She is not sure how far she should let him slip out of her sight.

 _Elizabeth DiNozzo's_ purse holds few other clues. Credit cards and store cards. A $50 bill and loose change. No family photos. Her Social Security card is wedged behind a coffee shop loyalty card, and Ziva takes both and slips them in her pocket. Out of the bunch of cards, those two are likely to be the most useful in solving this puzzle.

"What else?" he asks.

Ziva slips her hand into the bag again and pulls out a set of keys, then a cell phone and a small notebook. The cell phone is locked, and the lock screen shows a photo of a generic tropical island. She passes it to Tony and then flips open the notebook. The handwriting is small, neat and precise. The last page to have been filled shows a few dot points that look like a To Do list. _Call locksmith, Call Susan for lunch, Pay car insurance._ It is not a smoking gun by any means.

She looks over at Tony and finds him tapping on the cell phone. "Did you get in?"

He shakes his head. "Just trying…" He doesn't finish, but Ziva can guess. His birth date. Perhaps his father's.

She moves around to stand beside him again and hands him the notebook. "Nothing much in there. Does the handwriting look familiar?"

He squints at the page but gives her another shrugging headshake. "Maybe. I don't know."

She twists her lips. "Do you want me to call your father?"

Silence drags while he thinks it over. "No," he finally decides. "Not yet. Not until we know…"

She understands. From what information she has gathered over the years, Senior went through hell when his wife passed away, and it fractured his relationship with Tony for a good 30 years. Why drag him through it again if it is all for nothing?

She grips Tony's hand. "I will start looking into it tomorrow."

He nods and pulls her over to the visitors' chairs. They sit side-by-side and he holds her hand between both of his. His eyes are glued to the woman in the bed.

"Do you think she'd know me?" he asks, and his voice is back to a whisper.

Ziva's heart aches. But she knows for sure. "If it is her," she says carefully, "I have no doubt she would."

"It's been so long," he starts.

"But you are her son." She turns her head to look at him in profile. Tears stick to his eyelashes and her free hand lifts to stroke his cheek in comfort before the thought to move is fully formed. "You have shown me photographs of yourself back then, Tony. You do not look so different." The corner of her mouth pulls into a brief, faint smile. "But even if you did, she would know."

He blinks and a tear settles on his cheekbone. "Do you think she would like me?"

For a split second she thinks his bare pain might crush them both. Her eyes fill as her heart spills open for him, and her fingertips ghost over his jaw because it's all she can do to comfort him. This man she loves.

"Tony," she whispers. "She would love you more than anything."

His forehead pinches with more impending tears but somehow he manages to hold them off. "No, I know that she'd love me. In the way a mother does. But would she _like_ me? As a person." His voice is utterly broken.

She shakes her head in awe. "I do not understand how she could not think that you are the most wonderful man—" Her voice breaks and she takes a moment of silence to breathe and control her own tears. "She would be so proud of you, Tony. Her heart would burst with it."

His face crumbles, and she does not possess the strength to stop herself from leaning in to press her lips to his cheek. She cannot think of any other way to tell him how she feels for him. He turns his face towards her, and for a few aching moments the stay like that, cheek pressed against cheek, his quick, shallow breaths warming her neck. Until finally he asks the question she is sure has been at the top of his mind since he walked into the hospital that evening.

"If it's her, why would she have faked her own death? Why would she have left us?"

She can only think of two answers, but focuses on the most likely. "She would not have, Tony. You know if you were investigating this case, your first thought would be that this woman has stolen your mother's identity." She hopes this take on the situation does not hurt him, and it seems he has not let go of his investigator's brain while the son's heart hopes.

"I know. I've just always wanted to see her one last time."

She cannot fault him for that. She got to spend many more years with her mother than he did, but she still wishes for the same thing. A final few moments of safety and contentedness under a mother's love. One more hug and kiss. One final assurance that everything was going to be okay.

She doubts Tony will get that.

They sit together in silence, hands entwined and pain shared. She'll be with him if this woman opens her eyes and cries for her long-lost son. She'll be with him if her real identity becomes known, and rain hell upon her for doing this to him. She'll be there when he needs her, as long as he needs her, however he needs her.

But for now, she waits with him.

* * *

Because, as I've said before, I always thought about doing a story where Tony's mother turns out to be an Irina Derevko type. That's not going to happen, but I leave you with this 'what if?'.


	6. Elevator

More one shots.

* * *

She doesn't know why it happens then. She's been holding it together through this case—the brutal assault on a Petty Officer who just tried to start her day with a run—and she has learned how to disassociate herself from a victim's ordeal when she is on the clock. But as soon as she steps into the elevator after returning from interviewing the woman—her name is Lucy—a third time, she feels herself begin to lose it. Her eyes and throat burn with tears barely held in check, and she feels her chin quiver. One look at her partner confirms that he knows what's coming and is resigned to it, and that's the last straw. Hot tears spill down her cheeks as she loses grip on her emotion, and she quickly turns her back to him. History tells her that he is as embarrassed by women crying as she is by letting it happen.

The elevator comes to an abrupt halt and the lights dim, and a part of her is annoyed that he thinks she will need more time to compose herself than a standard elevator ride will take. The rest of her is annoyed because she knows he is right.

She is supposed to have a handle on this.

She swipes at her tears, puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head back to look at the ceiling as she wills her tears to dry up. Her tongue makes quick, firm strokes against the roof of her mouth to stop more tears from coming, and when her throat relaxes enough for her to take a careful, deep breath, she lets it out with a sigh.

"Sorry," she says, and her voice doesn't waver too much. "I am just…what is the saying? Tired and emotional?" She has no idea whether she got that right, but it makes sense in her head and he does not correct her.

"Don't apologize to me," he replies, and straight away she's close to tears again. He's using his private voice. The one he reserves for utterly serious and honest conversations that only succeed to blur the line between them even more.

"Because it is a sign of weakness," she intones, crossing her arms and turning to face him again. She's surprised to see his eyes welling too and hopes to God he won't cry. If he breaks, she is done for.

He shakes his head at her recital of workplace rules, and gives her a weighted look that removes the line completely. "Because I know."

That does it. The tears come again, harder than before, and this time she doesn't have a chance to turn away before he reaches out and pulls her against his chest. She makes an effort to push him away, but he holds firm and whispers to her.

"It's okay," he says into her hair. "I get it, Ziva. I know."

In her effort to control herself, she instead succeeds only at letting out a loud sob that rattles her chest. She is angry with herself. She is supposed to have dealt with this. She is supposed to have a handle on it. She is not supposed to need him for such overt comfort, and until now, she never has. This is a slippery slope.

She sniffs back her tears and pushes away again. The space between them leaves her cold and aching. "I am fine."

"No, you're not." It is a statement of fact, but it is delivered without accusation. Years ago she would have taken offense anyway and warned him against assuming to know her. These days, she just wants to believe that there is someone else on the planet who comes close to understanding her.

She wipes her cheeks and asks a useless question. "How many more of these cases are we going to see?"

She feels him hesitate over a lie. And she wants to hear it. God, all she wants is for him to lie to her. But he doesn't. "A lot, probably." He sounds as heartbroken as she feels, but she knows that can't be possible.

The weight of future horrors sends her back to the wall and her chin to her chest. She knows she cannot keep compartmentalizing forever. It does not get easier with time and practice. It is the opposite, and she finds it harder and harder to shut the door on the pain that builds within her every time they encounter a victim who has lost the same pieces of themselves that Ziva lost long ago. And sometimes, not so long ago.

"I don't want this, Tony," she tells him with frustration. "Make it stop."

The request is impossible and unfair. But she has no doubt in this moment that if he could stop it, he would. He shakes his head sadly and steps in, determined not to let her keep pulling away. One large hand lands gently on her cheek, and the other brushes hair off her face. They have been here before. She remembers it vividly. They were in this very elevator, and she felt the same hopelessness spreading through her heart. But he pulled her back to life, to him, with the same hand on her face and the same look in his eye.

 _Come on, Ziva. Fight. Stay with me._

She wants to give him that. She wants to be who he wants her to be. But there will always be monsters…

"How do you keep doing this?" she asks.

His hand doesn't leave her face, and he stares at her until his eyes fill again and he shakes his head. "Some days, I honestly don't know. Some days, I don't think I can do it for even another hour."

Her hand finds the hem of his jacket, and she holds on. "But you do. How?"

He offers her the ghost of a smile before leaning in to kiss her temple. "Because usually I only have to look up, and there you are," he whispers against her, and then pulls back, smiling with self-awareness as he puts space between them again. The meaning behind his words is not lost on her, and it makes her heart stammer and cheeks flush. And yet, in this moment of despair, her stomach falls.

"Tony," she starts, and her tongue feels so suddenly thick that she has to stop and swallow. "I do not want to be the thing that keeps you in a place that makes you miserable."

He leans his shoulder against the wall beside her, but keeps a foot away from her. "I'm not miserable," he assures her. "But there are times that I'm fragile, and I'm glad I have a partner who can keep me together." He eyes her. "Are you miserable?"

Is she? Surely that is the only conclusion to draw from tonight. And yet she cannot imagine every walking away from this.

He moves on to another question when she fails to answer. "How long has it been since you talked to Man Hands?"

She shakes her head firmly at his suggestion. "I do not want to keep going to therapy, Tony."

"But sometimes a check up's worth it," He points out, then pauses. "Can I come with you?"

She feels her hackles rise, despite knowing he has the best of intentions. "I do not need my hand held."

"What if I do?"

"I would wonder if you were being condescending," she tells him, and feels her eyes narrow.

His head falls to the side as he refuses the fight in her voice. "Ziva. I don't want you to feel like this. But I don't know how to fix it myself."

And she should not expect him to. She regrets being so honest and shifting her heartache onto him, and crosses her arms over her chest as if to keep more of herself leaking out. "I am sorry, Tony. I should not have asked you to make it stop." She scrubs her tone of emotion. "I was just…being dramatic. I will be fine." She reaches out to flip the brake on the elevator again, but his hand curls around her elbow.

"Don't do that," he says, but he's not pleading. In fact, his voice holds a hint of a chiding tone. "I need you to be honest with me."

She sighs and turns in a slow circle as the conversation churns in her head. She cannot compartmentalize forever. She cannot walk away from this. She cannot keep going. She must find a way through. Once upon a time, that would not have been hard. "Gibbs would say that I should not let things stick to me," she tells him. "And my father would have agreed."

"Okay, but would you hold either of them up as examples of good mental health?" he drawls, and he has a very good point. "Gibbs isn't always right, Ziva."

"So I should let things stick to me?"

"Sometimes they will," he says simply. "Some… _things_ …they can't be forgotten. But we've got to learn to live with them without letting them strangle us."

"I have been," she points out, and the edge in her voice is sharper than intended. But he doesn't recoil. It seems her words only grazed him, and he easily shakes them off.

"You have," he agrees. "But things have a way of rearing their heads again when our defenses are down." She does not miss that he keeps saying 'we'. "Particularly in this line of work."

And they have come full circle. This job, and the things they inevitably encounter, will make sure that devil always stays on her back. Once she was vulnerable enough to admit that her mandated therapy was helpful. She does not want to be the woman who keeps needing it, but in her gut she knows that she will not be able to deal with the next Lucy without it.

She eyes Tony. He smiles briefly, gently, reassuringly, and then tugs at her pinky finger.

"Come on," he urges.

"Do you really want to come with me?"

He nods, and then leans around her to flip the switch on the elevator again. The car lurches before continuing towards the bullpen. "It's past time for both of us."

That may be the case. But she can't help but feel that only one of them is past saving.

* * *

I promise I'll post one that isn't so heavy and angsty soon.


End file.
